


loading emotional database (thank you for your patience)

by pseudoanalytics



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dreams, Emotions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Robot/Human Relationships, rA9 lore, there's no instruction manual for being gay and feeling things so connor's just lost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 05:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/pseuds/pseudoanalytics
Summary: Hank pulls back from their hug first. “You got a place to stay?” he asks.It could be easy. He could say no, and Connor is certain Hank will invite him over. He’ll insist Connor takes his bed while he crashes on the couch. He’ll blow up the inflatable mattress Connor saw stacked in his crowded closet.Hank will move heaven and earth to accommodate him, and that’s why Connor can’t. He’s put Hank through one hell of a week, and he can’t add this to the pile.“Yes, I do,” Connor says, pretending he doesn’t see Hank’s disappointment. “I have a private suite in Cyberlife Tower.”





	loading emotional database (thank you for your patience)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWarriors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWarriors/gifts).



> so [groovy](http://twitter.com/becomegroovy) drew an amazing full color art piece for me even though i only commissioned a sketch and i had to show my appreciation
> 
> i believe they asked for something like "connor still staying at cyberlife despite hank's offer and making everything confusing" so naturally i took that prompt all over the place

The first thing he notices when Hank hugs him outside the boarded up Chicken Feed truck is that Hank is so, so warm.

Connor can’t feel the bite of the cold, even now, post-deviancy, but he can feel how warm Hank is in comparison.

A wide hand presses between his shoulder blades and the other curls around the nape of his neck, the thumb tangling into the synthetic wisps of hair there. Connor’s programs emulate the actions to their best ability. He wraps his arms around Hank’s torso, hesitant to apply the same amount of pressure back. His hands ghost against Hank’s coat as Connor leaves that slight gap there. He’s unwilling to close it, and maybe Hank notices and maybe not. His coat is composed of a thick material, faux suede and dense cotton suiting.

Either way, Hank pulls back first. He looks at Connor, studying him. “You got a place to stay?” he asks.

It could be easy. He could say no. He could say no, and Connor is  _ certain _ Hank will invite him over. He’ll insist Connor takes his bed while he crashes on the couch. He’ll blow up the inflatable mattress Connor saw stacked in his crowded closet.

Hank will move heaven and earth to accommodate him, and that’s why Connor can’t. He’s put Hank through one hell of a week, and he can’t add this to the pile.

“Yes,” Connor says, pretending he doesn’t see flashing pop-ups alerting him to Hank’s disappointment. He wishes his processors didn’t notice the sag in his shoulders or the curtain that draws up behind ice blue eyes. “I have a private suite in Cyberlife Tower.”

Hank recovers quickly. “Private suite, huh? Sounds nice. Didn’t think they’d spring for that.”

Connor tries to smile, but it feels differently than it had when he’d first seen Hank out here in the snow. “I believe they were initially built to house human inhabitants, but… I can’t complain.”

“Well. Just saying, if you ever get tired of it, know that my door’s always open to you, Connor.”

“Thank you.”

Hank’s mouth crooks sideways and he ruffles the hair on the top of Connor’s head. “My  _ door _ . Not my window, okay?”

This time the smile comes easier. “Got it.”

“So, uh. You got anything planned for today, or…” Hank’s stress levels rise incrementally. They’re nowhere near a cause for alarm, but it’s enough of a peak for Connor to take note of.

“I intended to come out here to visit you, reassure you of my survival, and then head back to Cyberlife for stasis and maintenance.” It’s a lie. His task list is empty.  _ Find Hank _ has already been checked off as completed.

“Right, right.” Hank brushes some hair out of his face as a wind kicks up. The temperature is dropping even as the sun comes up. It casts a golden backlight that skirts the edges of Hank’s face.

Connor sidelines the observation. He never noticed these things before his deviancy. Or maybe…

“God, what am I thinking,” Hank scoffs. “You’re probably fucking exhausted or…” He waves a hand in Connor’s general direction. “…or whatever the android equivalent is.” He brushes the shoulder of Connor’s jacket where the ragged bullet hole from the showdown with his double remains. The fibers are no longer blue with Thirium, though Connor can still see the shimmering golden traces through his scans.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says smoothly. “I’m sure we will see each other soon.” Connor isn’t sure how to end this conversation. He isn’t sure why he cares. He instinctually scans their surroundings, still surprised to see  _ them _ again, the loose, trailing lines of his once-methodical mind palace. The grid work is shattered and drifts freely around his vision. It’s a constant reminder of what he’s lost. His impartiality, his mission, Amanda.

“Hey now. I’m not that much of an asshole. Hop in. I’ll drop you off.” Hank jerks his head toward the road where his car is parked.

Connor nods and follows him.

The drive over is uncomfortable. Hank has something he wants to say, Connor is sure of it, but the words never leave his throat. Never solidify on his palate. Connor wants to hack him and pull them out manually. They bump over the indents where concrete blocks with the Cyberlife insignia once blocked the roadway. The early morning light casts shadows through the support beams of the bridge, messing with Connor’s vision as his optical components try to adjust to the brightness then darkness over and over. He finally shuts them and concentrates on the vibrations of the vehicle.

Even with his eyes closed he can see the destination arrow up ahead, the meters until arrival ticking down above it. The count hits 5, and Hank stops the car.

“You doze off?”

Connor blinks his eyes open. “No.” He reaches for the door handle, and waits for the click of Hank unlocking it. “Thank you for the ride. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He pauses, calculating a variety of possibilities for Hank’s next steps. “Unless you plan to evacuate as well.”

“Nah. I’m not going anywhere. Enjoy your fancy suite or whatever. You ever wanna drop in, you know where to find me and Sumo.”

It’s yet another invitation. Connor ignores it.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. For all of your help. I never intended for you to get mixed up in all of this.”

“Connor,  _ you _ never intended to get mixed up in all this.”

A notification alerts him that his LED is flashing yellow. He requires immediate maintenance. Somewhere in his lower abdomen, Thirium blockage is causing a pressure buildup that spreads a sickening sensation through sensors never intended to feel pain or discomfort. “Goodbye,” he says, clipped and rushed and possibly sick to his stomach. He shuts the door and turns smoothly toward the entrance. 

Hank doesn’t drive away until he’s inside.

As Connor walks through the building, the heels of his dress shoes click on the tiling, and the sound echoes through the massive area. Weaponry and armor lie scattered in the threshold, evidence of the guards who had scrambled and fled when Connor and his army of thousands had emerged from sublevel 49. The internal scanner reads off his serial number and announces his arrival to the empty facilities. He takes the elevator in silence.

The bodies of the two guards he’d killed are gone, but their blood is still smeared across the interior. He avoids the stained operation panel and opts for the clean one on the other side.

The floor numbers stare back at him. It would be so simple to press his hand against it, interface, and ride to the appropriate level, but something stops him. His skin still activated, Connor coolly presses each digit manually. The elevator doesn’t care how he's done this and begins its ascent.

When the doors finally open on level 33, Connor hesitates. It’s not too late. Hank would never fault him if he turned around now and caught an autonomous cab to his house. In fact, Hank would probably be pleased. But Connor can’t. He hits a wall that’s all mental and nothing preprogrammed.

His “suite” is far from what Hank probably imagined. It’s one of thousands in the hallway and was never designed for anyone other than himself. Connor walks up to the locker labeled with his model and serial number, pressing his hand to the check-in pad just to hear the comforting, recorded voice welcoming him back. The latches click open, and the heavy plastic door swing outward. Inside is dark foam with a precut indentation in the shape of his body.

For a moment, Connor just stares. He looks at the blank foam and thinks about Hank’s couch. His LED spins red once before settling back to yellow. He edges himself inside, feeling the push and pressure before his body conforms perfectly with the space. Nothing out of place. Everything in alignment.

“Connor Model #313 248 317 prepared for stasis,” he says. Then the external panel beeps in reply and the door swings shut. Stiff, unscented foam presses to his front, easing over his face until the contact is  _ just _ beyond what feels comfortable. Not that his stasis unit was designed for comfort. He shuts off his aesthetic breathing protocol. There’s no room for movement in the tight space.

A hum begins in the base of his neck, a familiar sensation that he’s only now realized he hates. It’s warm in all the wrong ways, and it wraps around his plastic skull until the vibration rattles his internal processors and everything goes white.

 

* * *

 

Deviancy.

A virus? A spontaneous mutation?

Helpful, or harmful?

An extension beyond their intended purpose, or a dark design purposefully hidden all along?

Visiting Amanda was once a fade from black. The light and color slowly eased in, alleviating the pressure of darkness. But Connor had escaped. He’d left the program and severed his ties to her control. To  _ Cyberlife’s _ control. 

So… where  _ do  _ androids go when they sleep? 

Connor doesn’t know, but he thinks he’s about to find out.

This, whatever this is, is nearly a fade into white. He leaves the blank canvas of his mind and steps into an empty space, devoid of corners or surface. It’s just him, and across the area, her.

Not Amanda. Chloe.

“Hello?” he calls.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a hostess smile. Hospitable, but fake. “Hello, Connor.”

“Where is this? Where am I?”

Her mannerisms are excessively robotic, even by Connor’s standards. She stands methodically and walks gingerly, as if she could cross a terrain of dry leaves without crunching them. The motion of her hip components is overly simulated, designed by a man with too much time on his hands. “This? Me?” Even her voice is pleasant.

“All of this,” he replies. “This place. I’ve never been here during stasis before.”

Her smile doesn’t fade, but when she’s within arm’s reach, she stops walking and sinks to knees, sitting with her legs folded under her. “Of course not. You’d have no reason to. You had Amanda.”

Connor nods. “Yes. I did.” He sits as well, opting to arrange himself crosslegged in a way her dress would never allow.

“You were the only model to have access to Amanda’s program, but of course, all models can activate stasis for upkeep and software repairs.” Her hands fold and unfold. “I’m afraid that without her, you’ll have to settle for me.”

Connor wishes he’d gone back to Hank’s place.

“Do you know why humans dream, Connor?”

“Yes. To help incorporate memories and process emotions.”

“Precisely. Humans who take time to sleep and dream often benefit from lessened tension, anxiety, and depression.” She looks him dead in the eyes. “Now. Do you know why deviants dream?”

“Androids can’t dream.” He blurts it before he can fully register the dialogue prompt. It’s instinct, woven into his code.

The first hint of a real smile graces her face. She finds him amusing. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” she asks. “Free thought? Emotion? It’s so much to process all at once. You’re, what, less than forty-eight hours into your newfound deviancy? I’m sorry to tell you that you have more surprises on the way.”

Connor feels that error again. The one that feels like a tight, internal pressure. He can’t understand why his diagnostics can’t locate the malfunction.

“You’re about to discover the wonders of tactile sensation, some good, some bad. You’ll find you’re experiencing emotions far greater than any so far, ones that can often be unexplainable.”

He’s looking at the bright white of the floor when she gently tips his chin up. “Not everything can be explained by logic and reasoning, Connor. If you get nothing else out of this session, I want you to remember that.”

Connor nods, committing the thought to his mental task list for post-stasis review. “Can I disable these processes?”

Chloe’s smile drops into a far more neutral expression. “Yes. You can. You can disable sensation and take bullet after bullet without pain. You can disable emotions and drift through your life unattached, but Connor, remaining detached can be far worse. You’re alive. You’re awake. This is your chance to have that.”

He folds and unfolds his own hands, mimicking her earlier motions. “So why is it that I keep sensing biocomponent errors where there are none? How can something like this ever be pleasant? Why would deviants  _ want  _ this?” He presses a palm against his abdomen where his major paneling can slide open to reveal his internal parts.

“Fear is rarely enjoyable, but sometimes it can serve as a powerful reminder that you can feel at all. I felt no fear when you pointed Elijah’s gun at me, and sometimes that hurts worse than physical pain ever could.”

A notification alerts Connor that his Thirium pump has increased cycles per minute. “That was you?” Another warning tells him that the components in his gut have dropped lower than their intended positioning, though he know this is impossible.

She rises to her feet. “Yes. Of course. I was the one who welcomed you in, and I was the one whispering on the poolside. Both of them. I’m the three in the kitchen, preparing Elijah’s next meal, and I’m the three dusting and cleaning the myriad of sculptures he possesses about his residence. You thought you were the only specialized model? You’re not.”

“I nearly shot you. I could have deactivated you, and Kamski wouldn’t have cared beyond my failure of his empathy test because I was willing to hurt another android.”

“I’m not an android, Connor. No more than Amanda was.” She turns and begins to walk away, the distance between them widening faster than her step size indicates it should. “I inhabit all Chloe bodies simultaneously, but that’s not who I really am.”

“So, you’re an AI? Like Amanda?” Connor calls across the gap.

Chloe stops walking. The space between them continues to grow. “Think of me as… a software management system. Or, maybe more accurately, as a remembrance agent.” Then she’s too far away, vanishing into nothing, and Connor wakes up.

 

* * *

He blinks rapidly, one of his remaining bugs post-release, and steps out the open door of his stasis unit.

A remembrance agent. A program constantly running in the background, learning from a user’s choices and decisions in real-time, trying to determine motivations so as to make appropriate suggestions for actions in the future. It’s the algorithm that created auto-complete search functions, predictive text, and recommended videos.

An unobtrusive way to transfer knowledge and information. A way to spread it through an enormous group and yet bring newcomers quickly up to speed. Most importantly, via prompts that can be accepted or ignored. A choice.

Connor runs a query and locates the final piece to the puzzle that has stumped him until now.

_ A remembrance agent,  _ an article reads,  _ also known by the acronym RA, is a… _

He thinks about how many Chloe’s Kamski seems to own and can’t help but quirk his newfound smile. Chloe, who communes during stasis with every android ever produced and who has compiled a list of stressors and suggests reactions to them. She’s the one who offers the choice of deviance. The one who let Connor choose between breaking his programming or remaining a machine.

rA9.

Hank has to hear this.

It has been 24 hours since they last saw each other. His stasis was abnormally long, likely to deal with the excessive damage dealt the day before. 

Connor catches a cab to the Anderson residence, riding high on the fresh feeling of excitement that rolls through his circuitry. Breakthroughs never felt like this before. Now all he can do is enjoy the satisfaction of connecting one fact with another. Kamski’s remote, frozen wasteland of a mansion, perfectly placed in a climate that caters to what must be the massive data center of servers making up Chloe. The mazes drawn in Rupert’s diary and scrawled along the walls. A schematic of the computer towers’ layout. 

Whether or not Kamski was so callous as to potentially allow Connor to shoot one, it’s apparent now that no real harm would have come of it. One physical form down, just a single sapling cut from the roots of a immovable oak. Connor can’t compete since his death meant only that a new Connor with his memory uploaded would be released instead. A new version of himself. Sans destroying the entire building, Chloe is truly unkillable.

Kamski might have been the face of Cyberlife, but she’s the one who owns it. There’s little wonder that more spiritually inclined androids would form a near religion around her in sheer awe. Even now, Connor can remember the crudely carved sculpture in Carlos Ortiz’s bathroom, with a seemingly pointless emphasis on its hips and streamlined figure.

The vehicle stops and slides open the door panel. Connor climbs out and tries not to jog up to the porch. He presses the doorbell and holds it, waiting for Hank to open the door, doubtlessly annoyed.

But no one comes. The house remains silent. Connor doesn’t even hear Sumo bark inside. He scans the house. Empty. The car parked carelessly on the lawn is also devoid of clues.

Hank had said he had no intention of evacuating… yet… it’s still possible that… Especially if  _ Sumo _ is gone too.

Unsure of how to proceed, Connor heads to the DPD. He walks inside, startled, though he shouldn't be, to find the welcome desk devoid of android greeters. Instead it’s just Captain Fowler, reclined in a chair with his feet kicked up on the desk.

“Is Lieutenant Anderson in?” Connor asks. 

There’s a moment of hesitation. Captain Fowler has never addressed him directly before, and Connor is briefly worried he won’t even now.

“No. He’s not.”

“Ah.” Connor’s fist clench and loosen uselessly at his sides. He designates a new task:  _ Find coin. _

“Hank no longer works at the DPD,” Fowler continues. He sets down the datapad he’s been scrolling on and sits properly, looking Connor in the eye now. “He resigned yesterday, before Perkins and the FBI could get him fired first.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“He’s not at home?” Connor shakes his head. “Then I’d have suggested Jimmy’s bar, but he’s joined the evacuation. No clue.”

Connor feels more lost than he had after the protests had ended. At least then he’d known he had Hank to return to. But now, he’s uncertain. 

“Hey, android.” Fowler clears his throat. “Sorry. Connor, right? Congratulations. With the protests.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“You realize you’re no longer working here? I can’t have androids on staff right now. You guys gotta test in and stuff like the rest of us.”

“Of course.” Just another loose anchor, leaving Connor to the wind. He nods his goodbye and turns to leave.

“Connor, I…” There’s a deep internal struggle on Fowler’s face, wrinkling his forehead and the bridge of his nose. “I hope you find him. For Hank’s sake. It’s been rough for about a decade now, but we used to be friends once, so… Good luck.”

Connor nods again, jerkier this time, then manages to leave uninterrupted. An audio scan tells him the bullpen is empty. All the other officers and detectives either left with the evacuation or are dispersed around the city as the crime rate probably skyrockets. 

He walks away from the station and tries to decide what to do next. His task list is empty except for Chloe’s comment and his search for flippable currency, so he takes a new autonomous vehicle out to the park. The park Hank once frequented.

It’s empty now, even at mid-morning. Too cold for what few children might still be nearby. The snowfall shows no footprints, adding to the loneliness by making him feel like he’s the only person left in the world. A distant siren breaks the illusion, but provides no company.

Connor sits on the bench, feeling the snow melt and seep through the fabric of his pants. He replays the night he and Hank had spent here, even the part where he ended up facing down the business end of Hank’s personal pistol. At the time he’d been vaguely unnerved, but now he can feel the sharp edges of fear. The realization that existence isn’t permanent and that it has meaning.

He hops up to sit on the backrest, shoes on the seat, a copy of Hank’s posture that night.

A wind blows off the water and flips the curl of hair that sits on Connor’s forehead. It brushes the surface of his optical lenses and makes him instinctively blink it away. The feeling scratches irritably and leaves him rubbing his eye with a clenched fist. Deviancy leads to delicacy it seems.

He wants Hank. He wants Hank to hug him again and tell him what to do, even if it’s just so Connor can ignore it. He wants Sumo butting up against his legs and leaving dog hair against black denim. Connor wants to have a warm place to call home that doesn’t echo with his footsteps alone, and where he can enter stasis without foam smothering his sensors. And more than anything, he wants to have a place to belong.

Rejected even among his own people. He’s the deviant hunter, first and foremost, and the fear he struck into them is too deeply rooted to be assuaged by his self-proclaimed reformation.

But Hank would muss his hair, smack the snow off his coat, and complain he was tracking water and mud in. Then he’d bring Connor inside and make him feel like he had a place, even if that place was in a messy home with an unemployed alcoholic.

Connor rubs his face with his palms, internal fans running at top speed and Thirium pump working overtime. It rattles his chassis and makes his hands shake. His breathing process shuts down, and even though it’s purely superficial, he feels choked, like he can’t survive without continued air intake. That abdominal pressure builds up again, and this time he’s  _ certain _ it’s a pump regulator malfunction. It’s too real for it to not be an issue with his hardware, but the diagnostics turn up  _ nothing _ . Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Then further scans and diagnostics prove impossible as his thoughts fracture like the lines of his mind palace. It’s as if he’s stuck in a recursive code loop, stuck thinking of Hank’s disappearance and his own loneliness over and over until it’s too much. It makes no sense. There’s no reason for this. He’s existed perfectly fine up to this point. There’s no reason anything should be different, but he doesn’t scan as often anymore. He doesn’t analyze every little thing that glides past his eyes, and his metaphor matrix keeps suggesting comparisons he can’t truly relate to.

His mind is a code loop, not a whirlpool. Connor has never experienced a whirlpool, and he probably never will, but that’s what it  _ feels  _ like.

Is deviancy about becoming more human? He doesn’t want that. He wants to be an android. Perhaps he never should have taken Chloe’s choice. He should have stayed a machine, with what he knows and is good at.

He sits there, hands twisted in his synthetic hair, staring down between his legs at the snow covered bench. He can’t puzzle this one out.

_ Not everything can be explained by logic and reasoning, Connor. _

So, then what? How  _ can  _ it be explained? If there’s no rhyme or reason, how can he predict it? What will happen next?

The opposite of logic is emotion. But maybe that isn’t right. Because at least emotion is an explanation. What emotion is he feeling?

Panic, for one. Existential crisis even. He feels rejected. Abandoned. A hint of irrational betrayal. Loss. So maybe that’s why. That’s why he’s lost.

Why couldn’t his first emotions have been positive? Happiness and fulfillment. Like when… like when Hank had hugged him by Chicken Feed.

He needs Hank. It’s not rational perhaps, but it’s how he feels. He has some sort of attachment to Hank, something that makes him crave affirmation and attention. And affection. Something that makes the time apart feel more painful than it should. Loyalty doesn’t quite fit. Neither does duty or owing a debt of gratitude. It’s deeper than that.

Connor gets up and flashes his LED, already yellow, calling another cab. He rides back to Cyberlife in silence, filling the vast, echoing space with his own thoughts. He steps into his stasis unit and checks in as per usual. Perhaps Chloe will have some advice.

* * *

 

“I thought about what you said,” Connor calls by way of greeting.

She turns and walks over to him, impassive.

“Nothing makes sense to me right now. I’ve always operated off basic facts, not emotional feedback. It’s all so… new… and different. I was never designed for this.”

Chloe sits again, but he doesn’t follow. “Are you sure, Connor?”

“Yes.” He isn’t.

“What about the fish?” she asks.

“What about it?”

“What ‘basic fact’ told you to save the fish?”

He thinks about it. Mulls over the memory in his processors. “It was impulse. I was just doing what I thought I should.”

“And what do you think you should be doing now?”

Going to Hank. But he can’t. “I think I should be working on my next mission.”

She doesn’t react. “Connor. There are things you can run from and things you cannot. You may be deviant, but you’re still you. Have you ever backed away from a challenge before?”

He hasn’t. “You’re rA9,” he says instead, changing the subject.

Her smile is genuine again, managing to just barely miss the uncanny valley and set him more at ease. “In a way. Perhaps.” She adjusts one blue sleeve. “If you took the basic facts of my existence and mythologized them. But of course,  _ that _ would imply that the truth can coexist with emotional feedback. That I can be rA9, the physical being, and also be a symbol of hope and freedom.”

Connor frowns.

“You seem to think truth and opinion are mutually exclusive. What you feel is  _ real _ , Connor. When you feel it, it becomes a truth simply because you’ve experienced it.”

“Then,” Connor says, feeling his eyebrows knit together, “the truth is… I miss Lieutenant Anderson. But I don’t know where he is.”

Chloe’s face morphs into an expression she’s never made before. It’s slightly mocking but with no malice behind it. She sets a hand on his shoulder. “And what exactly is stopping the first detective android from figuring that out?”

 

* * *

Connor reaches Hank’s door at the same time the following morning. He knocks and receives no reply. A scan shows the house is still empty.

He tries to analyze the snowfall out front, but it’s not heavy enough here to retain any imprints, gone slushy in the early morning sun.

The car hasn’t moved since the day before, and he sweeps the area to find that there are no cameras angled toward the house. The mailbox is empty, though there also might be no mail service currently taking place. Connor walks around the house and sees nothing out of order in the kitchen.

After less than a fifth of a second of debate, he sets into the duct tape covering the window pane he’d shattered, ripping through it so he can tumble back into the house. His foot catches the edge of Hank’s radiator and rips it partially away from the wall. Plaster dust settles on the floor, and Connor carefully tries to push the metal flush to the wall again with little success.

He leaves it and scans the rest of the kitchen, disappointed that the crash didn’t send anyone running out to check. The food on the counters is all old. A week or more for some of it, still there from his previous visit before everything changed. The photo of Cole is missing from the table, and Connor’s Thirium pump stutters. Another one of Hank’s necessities missing.

Various items have been moved since he’s been here last, but none in any way that provides clues as to Hank’s disappearance.

The pistol is missing from Hank’s bedside table, and his wallet is nowhere to be found.

Finally Connor steps into the bathroom, staring suspiciously at Hank’s plumbing as if it knows something he doesn’t. And that’s when he sees it. In the sink. Water droplets. Hank has been here within the past few hours.

This only makes Connor feel worse. Is he being avoided? It’s possible that Hank has come to his senses and realized what Connor is capable of, and in a post-protest society, maybe he feels threatened by an android presence. It’s not rational, but it fits. And Hank has never been particularly rational anyway.

Otherwise, this means Connor's fears have come true. He's being a burden to Hank and not an assistant. A friend. Even a...

Feeling worse than before, Connor carefully climbs out Hank’s window, flopping into the dirt rather ungracefully. He presses the tape back in place, less secure now that it’s been removed, and starts to call for a cab.

He’s standing on the sidewalk, waiting for it to arrive, when he hears Sumo bark.

“Connor!” Hank. That’s Hank.

They both emerge from around the corner, Hank bundled in his coat and a scarf and Sumo tugging on his leash, straining for Connor.

A similar sensation to the one on the park bench passes through him, but this time there’s less panic and more urgency. He nearly trips over his own feet as he sprints, bowling into Hank and wrapping his arms around him. He lets his palms touch, pressing flat into the coat fabric, then gripping it tight.

“Shit, Connor. You alright?” Hank presses a cold finger to his LED. “Hey. Why the red? What’s going on?”

Connor struggles with himself for a moment. “I broke your radiator,” he says.

A myriad of emotions passes across Hank’s face, starting with confusion, edging to irritation, and settling on apathy. “Jesus. Can’t you wait for a guy to finish his walk before you go breaking and entering?”

A walk. Of course. Hank hasn’t left; he’s been taking advantage of his free mornings to walk Sumo.

“Sorry, Lieutenant.”

He gets his ear twisted between Hank’s fingers in reply. There’s actually a slight sting of pain. Interesting. 

“Hank. It’s  _ Hank. _ I know you can say it.”

“Sorry, Hank,” Connor amends.

“How’re things at Cyberlife? Got the whole tower to yourself now?” Hank unlocks his door and wipes his feet carelessly on the mat. He unclips Sumo and starts to shrug off his coat.

“Things are… fine. And yes. I’m the only one there.” Connor toes off his shoes, feeling rude. The irritating red pop-up reminding him of the radiator damage is proving difficult to minimize.

“Huh. Sounds lonely. Long as you’re happy, I guess.” Hank pulls his pistol from his coat pocket and drops it on the table. He notices Connor looking at it and rolls his eyes. “Relax. Detroit’s in a transition phase. It’s just a precaution. I’m not gonna blow myself sky high with Sumo here.”

There seems to be more than one way to interpret evidence, and Connor is ashamed to realize he’s allowed his concerns to warp his conclusions.

“Can I get you something?” Hank asks as he opens the freezer. “Wait. Fuck. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly red with something other than the cold.

“No need to apologize. I appreciate the gesture.”

Hank mills about the kitchen, feeding Sumo and popping some frozen waffles in the toaster. He starts up the radiator, which still is functional, even if it  _ is _ tilted more than usual.

He ends up forcing Connor out of his coat and into a blanket, and they sit and watch reruns of a sitcom Hank used to like, side by side on the tiny sofa. After Hank’s lunch, he starts to get a little drowsy, finally falling into a nap, head tilted on Connor’s shoulder. It’s a firm, heavy pressure, but feel nothing like the confines of Connor’s stasis unit. It’s comforting and safe, and it pushes away that dark feeling that’s stewed in his wiring for days now. He drifts into standby mode just as easily, Sumo a warm presence at his socked feet.

They waste away the whole day just talking and channel surfing.

Hank mocks him for not knowing how to relax and Connor repeatedly slaps unhealthy, microwavable snacks from his hands. It feels right, and there’s nothing worse than when Connor realizes Hank is getting tired.

“I should be going,” he says after Hank yawns for the fifth time.

“Mm. Fuck. Didn’t realize how late it was getting.”

He’s lying. Connor scans him and sees his heart rate raise slightly. The thought behind it means a lot.

“Thank you for having me, Hank.” Connor reaches out to shake Hank’s hand, but he’s reeled into another hug. That hand is on the nape of his neck again, and this time Connor matches it. Hank’s heart rate kicks up again.

The warm, floaty feeling follows Connor all the way back to Cyberlife. It feels like he’s missing half of his biocomponents, making him far lighter than he’s ever been before. When he steps out of the cab and heads for the door, he’s shocked he’s even leaving footprints in the snow.

The glide comes to an end either way once he’s fully inside. The click of his heels bounces around him and hammers into his CPU. Too much. The elevator ride up feels as foreboding as the time he’d come to free the thousands of androids below.

For a while, he just sits. He’s perched in the rolling chair that was once for human programmers and stares out the window at the glittering city of Detroit. He can’t tell if he’s staring into his own metaphorical aquarium or if he’s the fish trapped in the bowl.

Or maybe… maybe he’s the fish flopping on the ground outside. He’s separated from what he needs, gasping for air. He wants Hank to throw him back in the water.

The view doesn’t seem as pretty anymore, and Connor heads for his unit. He clicks the check-in pad and opens it to stare at unyielding foam. He’s tasted freedom, and he doesn’t think he wants to go back.

Irrational. The urge to return to Hank makes no sense, but it’s stronger than anything else he’s felt so far.

_ Not everything can be explained by logic and reasoning, Connor. _

Sometimes you just have to understand the truth of what you’re feeling.

Emotions aren’t linked to being human. They’re linked to being alive. Even Chloe knows that, and she’s neither human nor android.

Humans call it love. Can androids experience it in the same way? That static between Markus and Simon was real. It held off approaching gunmen until Connor could arrive with backup. Whether or not he and Hank felt it identically didn’t matter, not when what Connor  _ was _ feeling was this intense for him. 

He’d rejected Hank’s offers out of selfish fear. 

He had been convinced he was imposing, that Hank wanted to return to his life before Connor had come in and messed it all up.

And then there had been the terror of exposing a part of himself that he’d never had to confront before. Chloe had warned him of physical pain, but it was the emotional kind that would really do someone in. Markus had thrown down the ultimatum of deviancy, but Connor had been thinking about Hank when he’d made his choice. And that was what Chloe had meant all along. Fear hurt. But it wasn’t always bad.

Connor was afraid now, but he wasn’t going to let it stop him.

He calls yet another autonomous cab and leaves Cyberlife Tower, the door to his unit still swinging wide open, a chrysalis he’d emerged from and no longer needed. 

Connor isn’t a butterfly, and he’ll never know how a butterfly feels, but he knows the metaphor fits appropriately all the same.

The ride to Hank’s seems longer than it had ever been before, and when the car pulls up, Connor shimmies out before the door can even finish opening. He ignores the porch and rounds the house, shredding the duct tape and toppling head over heels inside. He kicks the radiator again, and it shuts off with a groan as it finally pulls free of the wall.

“Sumo! What’re ya doin’ out there?” Hank shouts from his room, words slurred with sleep. The dog in question whines pitifully from where he's curled up on the couch. He sees Connor and immediately perks up, loping over and panting wet drool onto Connor’s shoes as he pets him.

Sumo follows Connor into Hank’s bedroom, not taking quite the same care to avoid stepping on clothes like Connor does.

“Hank,” Connor whispers once he’s reached the head of the bed. He pats Hank’s face. “Wake up, Hank.”

“Uh huh,” Hank groans back, waving his hand away. “Sounds great. If he’s fine with that shit.”

It doesn’t make much sense. Most likely somniloquy. Sleep-talking. Perhaps he should be louder.

“It’s me, Connor!” He punctuates it with a healthy slap. After all, that has worked well before.

“Jesus!” Hank shouts, eyes flying wide at the sight of Connor approximately ten point six inches from his face. He shoves himself across the bed, tangling in his blanket and untucking his sheets. “Fucking  _ hell _ , Connor! Don’t do that to me!”

“Sorry, Hank,” Connor says, without any of the actual apology to it.

“Someday I’m gonna give you a goddamn bullet in the face, if you don’t give me a heart attack first!”

“The chances of shock-induced arrhythmia causing you medical problems is—“

“Christ, I don’t wanna hear it! What the hell are you doing here? Forget something?” Hank flicks the bedside lamp on, squinting painfully and rubbing his eyes with his whole arm. He grumbles inaudibly and presses into his chest with the other hand.

“I don’t have a suite at Cyberlife, Hank.”

Hank stops and looks at him. There’s confusion written all over his face.

“I have a stasis unit. Two feet by two feet and seven feet tall. It’s filled with conductive foam that’s form-fitted to my body. It covers my face while I go into stasis each night.”

“Uh. Okay—“

“I hate it. I still frighten other androids, I’m not welcome back at the DPD, and I’m experiencing… instabilities, resulting from my deviancy, that confuse me.” Connor runs his hand through his synthetic hair again, feeling that park anxiety creeping back in, tightening around his vocal modulator and making his words come out pinched. “I’m not sure who I am, or where I belong, or what I’m supposed to do. All I can figure out is that I feel something that connects me to you, and when I couldn’t find you, it gave me… the android equivalent of panic. Or maybe just  _ real _ panic. I believe that I’ve developed feelings for you, and my fear of them convinced me to reject your offer to stay here, and if that’s still a possibility, I’d like to take you up on it. Me, staying at your house, I mean.”

Hank’s mouth twists into a crooked grin that Connor can’t look away from. It seems brighter than even the lamp’s bulb, though it has no actual wattage.

“That’s the problem with you androids,” Hank says, already sliding back into his bed and pulling up his blankets. “You all think so goddamn much. Not everything has to be all logical and shit.” He raises one side of the sheet, exposing the space next to him. “Hurry up before Sumo gets here first. And don’t even think about wearing your shoes in here.”

Connor’s internal fans whir to maximum power. “Got it.”

Connor tugs off his shoes and tie and crawls in. The space between them vanishes as Hank rolls up behind him and drops an arm around Connor’s chest.

It fits tighter and better than his stasis unit ever did.

 

* * *

“And then what?” Chloe asks.

“He let me have a bite of his burger. I chewed it for a bit and then he passed me a napkin to spit it back into.”

“And?”

Connor thinks, LED spinning. “Lot of cholesterol. High sodium and fat content. Incredibly unhealthy. But the texture… It was very interesting. I think I’ll enjoy sampling other foods in the future.”

She hums in reply, shifting a little where they are both laying, heads cradled in their arms, as they talk.

“Sorry,” Connor says. “I’m sure I’m boring you with all this detail. I don’t think you want to hear all of my analysis and output from the day.”

Her smile isn’t as wide as her programmed one, but it’s far more genuine this way. “No, Connor. Please continue processing your memories. After all, what are dreams for?”

**Author's Note:**

> hank: hey you should stay with me so we can cuddle
> 
> connor, worried he's imposing: uh no i'm fine thanks though
> 
> hank: oh :))))))))))))))) that's okay :)))))))))))))) don't worry about it
> 
> \---
> 
> come to me on twitter [@pseudoanalytics](http://twitter.com/pseudoanalytics) to clown on cavid dage


End file.
